I Don’t Get It

Last night my wife was showing a comedian to the family — someone she had discovered in the last couple of years. As everyone laughed, it hit me: she hadn’t shared this with me. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she knew it probably wouldn’t land.

Early in my injury, when she would try to share something funny, I wouldn’t laugh. I couldn’t. Sarcasm, timing, nuance — my brain simply couldn’t process humor the way it once did. I still struggle with it often. Some jokes go completely over my head. Others I get intellectually, but they don’t trigger that natural burst of laughter. Sure, I can still laugh! Thankfully there are many things that do. But the intellectual jokes we used to share? Gone. The comedian humor that subtly throws in references? I don’t get them because I don’t know the reference. It is like when you go to share that funny moment from your favorite show but the other person hasn’t seen it. You have to explain the whole characters and scene in order to set it up and by then - it is no longer funny. There is a real pain in trying to share that simple moment when it doesn’t land. To feel suddenly alone in a conversation that could have instead been such deep connection even over a simple TV show reference if the other had gotten it.

Yesterday I became painfully aware of multiple moments where the five other adults in the room were all laughing… and I wasn’t. Sometimes it was missing context — historical references or shared memories my injury erased. But more often, I think it’s neurological. My brain just doesn’t process humor the same way anymore. I take so much at face value and accept it for what it is. When the store check out lady says to me, “got enough salsa today?”, I realized I take it literally and answer, “I hope so”. When I shared that with another brain injury survivor he told me he was working on his yard and a lady drove by saying, “great work, going to come do mine next?” and he kind-heartedly answered, sure, and also took it literally. Until he tried to go help but didn't know who this person was, where they lived, and his wife helped him figure out she didn't mean it that way…

It’s sad to admit that reality. But at least I see it now. Sometimes, at least.

The Loneliness My Wife Has Carried Alone

What tears me up more deeply is realizing how truly alone my wife has been.

She hasn’t just lost the version of me that could keep up with life. She’s lost the version of me she could laugh with. She couldn’t casually share a funny reel, a clever meme, or a new comedian without having to explain every nuance, every cultural reference, every reason it’s supposed to be funny. Over time, it stopped being worth the effort. Maybe now, as I keep recovering at some point she could again. But for three years, she couldn’t.

Imagine being married to someone who is physically present every hour outside of work… but emotionally and relationally unavailable for one of the simplest joys in life: shared laughter.

It’s like being married to someone who is paralyzed. The trail ahead is beautiful, the view is waiting, but the path isn’t accessible. She has to push me in the analogous sense of a wheelchair for someone who can’t walk, for my brain just to get to the joke, doing all the work every step of the way trying to help me understand — and often, it’s just not possible. So she walks it alone.

That realization broke my heart as a husband.

The Caregiver Burden No One Talks About Enough

Brain injury recovery is incredibly challenging for the survivor. I live with the limitations every single day. But as I become more aware of my deficits, I’m becoming acutely aware of just how heavy this has been for my wife — especially when so much of her support system disappeared. When she feels so alone and invisible to this disabled version of the person she joyfully promised forever to, for and with.

She has grieved the old me in silence while caring for the current me. She has laughed at funny things by herself. She has carried the emotional labor of constantly bridging the gap between me and the rest of the world. That kind of loneliness — being married but still somehow alone in the little moments — is devastating.

Finding New Paths Together

This doesn’t mean we’re stuck. It just means we have to find different paths to the same destination.

We may never laugh at the exact same things the way we used to. But we can still find joy together. Maybe it’s slower. Maybe it requires more explanation. Maybe it looks like me trusting her to carry parts of the laughter and me finding other ways to bring her delight. We’re learning to adapt — to build new trails that are accessible for both of us.

If you’re a caregiver reading this, I see you. The weight you carry is enormous, and the grief is multilayered. If you’re the survivor, your spouse needs to know you see the cost they’re paying.

My wife has been incredibly strong and patient. I’m sorry for the laughter you’ve had to experience without me. I’m grateful for every time you still try. For every meme and reel you still do send, even when I need help understanding or still don’t get it. And I’m committed to finding new ways to walk (and laugh) with you — even if the path looks different than it used to.

We’re still going forward. Together.

To every TBI survivor and every caregiver: You are not alone in this hard, complicated love. The path may have changed, but the destination — a life built together — is still worth fighting for. You are not alone.